


Debt Collector

by dragonspell



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey's home alone.  One of his dad's former business partners comes to collect.  (Pre-series, Mickey's 14).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Debt Collector

It’s just after one when Iggy comes jogging into the house. He grabs a gun off the table and checks it before looking at Mickey. “You go to school today?”

“Fuck that,” Mickey says, waving a hand. “Skipped out after first hour.” School’s a fucking waste of time. The teachers all give him shit because he isn’t worth their damn time. Mickey’s only started high school, but the teachers all know him already. There’d been one that had hopes for him, a Miss Johnson that taught math, but Mickey had quickly disappointed her, too. So Mickey’s home doing fucking nothing. What difference did it make anyway?

“Whatever,” Iggy replies, pocketing a few extra clips. “Just make sure you show up enough that they don’t send the police again.”

Right. Dad got so fucking pissed the last time, he ended up back in jail. Considering that Dad has only been home for a few months, maybe Mickey better stay on his toes. He’s going to have to go to all of his classes tomorrow. Fuck.

“See ya.” Iggy jogs back out of the house and Mickey gives him a one-fingered salute on his way out.

“Yep, whatever.”

It wasn’t even his fault this time, but Mr. Parrish had gotten mad at him anyway. Mickey had actually been paying attention, not that it mattered. Sometimes, Parrish got into some interesting stuff and Mickey liked to listen, like when he started talking about the chemical warfare and shit that was going on over in the Middle East. This time it was that dillweed Zack Kilmer that had been saying shit. He sat right next to Mickey and his family liked to pretend that they had money so of course it was Mickey that had gotten in trouble.

Fuck it. Mickey didn’t need school anyway. It isn’t like he needs a diploma to run meth and eventually get shot and bleed out in the street. It’s just a fucking piece of paper that means jack all.

The front door opens again and Mickey rolls his eyes. “What did you forget this time?” he asks because, Jesus, Iggy would leave his own damn head behind if it wasn’t attached.

“Oh, I didn’t forget anything,” a strange voice replies and Mickey turns.

“Who the fuck are you?” There are three men standing in the doorway now: a skinny stick of a junkie and two pieces of muscle, one white and one black. Mickey puts a snarl on his face because half the time if you look tough enough, they won’t even fucking bother. Still, he’s 100 pounds of nothing and Mickey knows that he looks about as threatening as a wet cat. He inches towards the gun that’s on the coffee table. He thinks that he can make it if the guys show any sign of trouble.

“Who the fuck am I?” the junkie asks. The guy’s tall but pretty much all sinew and bone. A scar is sliced into the side of his cheek and something tells Mickey that the guy’s not here for fucking tea. “Who the fuck am I? What’s the matter, your Pops didn’t tell you about me? He probably fucking should have, ‘specially if he was planning to double cross right from the beginning.” 

Well, fuck. “If my dad owes you money, I’m sure—”

“Your dad owes me a _lot_ of money. Home-fucking-brew and he thinks he’s going to take it and sell it like I’m some kind of backyard trailer trash setup?”

Mickey spreads his hands out, trying to look consolatory, but really reaching for the gun. “Hey. My dad’s good for it. You know, he’s probably over at your place with the cash right now.”

The guy smiles and runs a thumb over his lip. “See, now that’s funny. Because your dad was supposed to bring me the money two weeks ago.” Mickey’s heart sinks. This isn’t going to be pretty. Fucking Dad. He was supposed to give them a heads up if he pulled any shit like this. “So now, I’ve got to come and take it.”

The black guy steps forward and he’s a fucking mountain. Fear trickles through Mickey’s body because, fuck, if that gets a hold of him, you might as well just buy him a nice little plot in the cemetery; he wasn’t likely to draw air again. “Your dad going to be home soon?” he rumbles.

Mickey considers lying, but he knows that his bluff would be called pretty damn quick. He shrugs and clamps down on the tendril of panic that’s starting to make his hands shake. The junkie in the lead’s got a piece in his hand and at least one knife in either boot while the muscled behemoth behind him has got a bat that’s solid enough to shatter a kneecap or a skull. The black guy’s not carrying anything, but Mickey bets that he’s got a gun tucked away too. Nobody’s stupid enough to bust into the Milkovich house and not come prepared.

“Where is he?” the black guy asks and Mickey’s just scared enough of him to answer.

“Don’t know,” Mickey tells him. “Said he was going out for a beer? I don’t know where he goes. I—” Mickey’s voice breaks. “I’m normally at school.” If Dad’s not in one of the local bars, then he’s probably scoring another deal but Mickey wouldn’t know where. Mickey wishes that he had just stayed at school for once in his damn life.

“Fucking perfect,” the junkie says. “Guess we’ll just have to wait for him, won’t we?” He strides into the room, taking a quick stock then focuses in on Mickey. “Got any beer in this place?”

Mickey swallows and drops his eyes to the gun on the table. Two seconds. Would that be enough? The junkie looks wired enough to shoot him just for moving—a hand smacks Mickey across the face and the junkie’s there, spitting at him. “Don’t even think about it, you little shit. You think you got the guts to shoot me? Fucking do you?” He slaps Mickey again, sending Mickey sprawling on the couch. “Now I said, get me a goddamned beer, so why don’t you be a good little bitch and get your guests something to fucking drink?”

Mickey scrambles off the couch, leaping over the arm, and skitters to the fridge. The door’s just a few more steps— “I will fucking shoot you in the back.” –that Mickey’s not going to be able to take. Mickey grabs three and brings them back to the living room. The muscles don’t look interested, too busy casing the place, but the junkie’s sitting in Dad’s chair with his feet up on the table. “Give it here,” he says. Mickey stands next to the couch and stretches out his arm. He doesn’t know what a little distance is going to do when the guy’s got a gun, but he doesn’t want to get any closer than he has to.

The junkie bypasses the beer and seizes Mickey’s arm instead. His thumb rubs against Mickey’s skin and Mickey’s gut twists sickly. “You’ve got some soft skin there, kid. Like a girl’s.” He grins at Mickey and the panic that Mickey had been keeping under wraps flares up into a goddamned bonfire. Every instinct that Mickey has is screaming at him to tell the guy to fuck off or take a swing and run for it, but he knows that that would be a spectacularly bad idea.

“Jesus, Jack, what the fuck are you doing?” The black guy’s standing at the edge of the hallway, glaring at the junkie who’s still got a hold of Mickey.

“Shut your fucking mouth, Cole,” the junkie snaps back. He releases Mickey and takes the beer. Mickey stumbles backward, bouncing off the arm of the couch. The two other beers that Mickey had been holding drop to the floor.

Cole rolls his eyes and disappears into the house, probably looking for shit that he can steal. The other heavy hitter goes with him, leaving Mickey with just Jack the Junkie.

Jack holds up his gun. “Could still shoot you, you know,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather. “So you just sit down there and behave and maybe I won’t.” Mickey drops to the couch and stares at his hands. Christ, he’s such a fucking loser. Iggy would have gotten the gun the minute the guy’s busted in. Joey would have, too. Dad would have shot them the minute the door banged open. Mickey had just sat there and wished.

“You really don’t know where your Pops is, huh?” Mickey shook his head. Dad went anywhere and everywhere. He didn’t like having a pattern because that was how the cops nailed you. “That’s too bad.” Jack takes a long swallow of his beer. “’Cause me and the boys aren’t leaving until we’re square. Now, see, if your dad was here, we’d take it out on him, no need to involve you. Seeing as how he’s not, though…” He laughs and takes another swig. “I’m sure he’s got some cash lying around somewhere.”

In the back of the house, something bangs against the wall. Mickey stares at the blank TV. He doesn’t know how much Dad owed these guys but he’s pretty sure that if they are pissed off enough to come find it, then it isn’t something that Dad is just going to have laying around.

“So why aren’t you in school? You’re like, what, thirteen? Fourteen?” 

Mickey bites his lip, ready-made lies floating through his head. “Sick,” he says.

“You don’t look sick.” Mickey shrugs and Jack laughs. “Yeah, sick with schoolitis, huh?” Jack tips the bottle up again for a good long time. It’s half gone when he sets it on the table and stands up. “You know, your dad owes me a lot of money. I mean a _lot_ of money. If it were a couple thou, I wouldn’t be here, just send out Kyle with the bat. When we start talking five, six digits, though, I start getting antsy.” Jack steps closer to the couch. “You ever seen that much money? That’s a lot of money.”

Mickey’s trying not to move, trying not to give Jack anything to react to. He’s seen this before, the slow stalking. Hell, he’s done it. It goes from peaceful to face-punching, neck snapping violent in a blink of an eye. If he doesn’t do anything, though, there’s a chance that Jack might get bored or try something else. It’s a slim chance, but it’s all Mickey’s got right now.

“You’ve got really pretty eyes, you know that?” Jack says, sitting down on the couch, and a tremor ripples through Mickey’s hands. Fuck. He flattens them to his legs and digs in. “And your mouth—”

Mickey stands up, ready to bolt, except Jack grabs his wrist. “Where are you going?”

Mickey half smiles through his nerves, wanting to appear cooperative and harmless. He probably looks fucking terrified, which is exactly what guys like Jack get off on. “Nowhere. Just, uh, going to get you another beer, yeah?”

Jack shakes his head and smiles. “Got a beer,” he says. “Still half full.”

“I’d better get you another one before you finish. Wouldn’t want you to be thirsty.” Panic is starting to boil over. Mickey shuts his mouth before he starts to babble.

“Don’t need it. Sit.” Mickey stays where he is and Jack frowns. “ _Sit_.” Mickey’s knees break.

Jack smiles at him again. He looks like a snake, all pointed chin and beady eyes. He turns Mickey’s hand over, thumb running over Mickey’s wrist. Mickey lets him have the limb and tries to divorce himself from the sensations rippling up his arm. “I’m very mad at your dad, you know.” The TV’s reflecting everything that’s happening like it’s some kind of fucked up show. Mickey can see how the guy is smiling at Mickey’s wrist, how he’s studying it. He can see how the guy’s starting to tent his pants. “But that doesn’t mean you and I can’t be friends.”

Mickey’s lower lip trembles and he bites the inside until the pain makes it stop. He should have fucking stayed at school. Why hadn’t he stayed at school?

“Hey,” Jack says. “How about you and I work out a little deal?” His fingers trail up Mickey’s forearm. Mickey shivers, his hand tightening convulsively. The front door’s the closest, but he’d be shot before he even made the corner. “I could knock a few bucks off your dad’s bill.” Mickey strangles a noise in his throat. “I’ll treat you real nice, don’t worry.”

“I’m not…” Mickey swallows. “I’m not gay.” He wants to punch Jack in his snakey-face for even suggesting it, beat him to an inch of his life because that’s what you’re supposed to do with faggots. You don’t sit there and let them feel you up, not unless you’re…

Jack laughs low in his throat. “Neither am I,” he says. He holds up his gun and for a brief, shining moment, hope flares inside of Mickey. Just as quickly, it dies because even if he somehow did get the gun from Jack, there was still Cole and the other guy to deal with who would probably bash his brains in. “Now, I’m going to set this right over here, and you’re going to be real nice, aren’t you?” Jack lowers the gun to the chair that he’d been sitting in before. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to have to shoot you. You’re not going to go to the cops, either, right?”

Mickey shakes his head. Like the fucking police would do anything. He’d be better off kicking the faggot’s head in on his own. “That’s good,” Jack whispers. “That’s real good.” He leans in and kisses under Mickey’s jaw, lips brushing against Mickey’s skin. Mickey swallows and shrinks away but Jack follows until he’s nearly on top of Mickey. His hand travels up Mickey’s bare arm and slides over his chest to rub small circles in Mickey’s tank top.

Mickey closes his eyes. He wants this all to just go away, like fucking Dorothy with her ruby slippers. Jack and his buddies, fucking Dad and his drug running, the trashed house, his shitty life. The fact that he’s got half an erection because some fag’s feeling him up.

Jack’s hand lifts up Mickey’s shirt as his lips move to Mickey’s ear, sucking on the lobe. He skims over a nipple and Mickey chokes another sound in his throat. The lips move away and a thumb strokes over Mickey’s cheek. “Aw, hey now, don’t cry.”

Mickey’s not fucking crying. He’s not that fucking weak. He’s just, he’s just… He sucks in a shaky breath and wipes away another tear. Jack presses a kiss to the corner of his lips. “There’s nothing to cry about.”

Mickey turns his head and touches his lips to Jack’s. If he’s going to do this, then he might as well actually do it. Jack looks nothing like the guys that have been sneaking into Mickey’s dreams lately but fuck it, right? Mickey’s not a damn fag anyway and it’s not like Mickey’s life has been anything but shit. His first time might as well be with a goddamned junkie that his father screwed over.

After a moment or two of shock, Jack groans and starts eating Mickey’s mouth. His tongue shoves itself into Mickey’s mouth and Mickey tentatively touches it with his own. It’s the first time Mickey’s ever kissed a guy. It feels like he’s being frenched by a lizard because Jack’s all chapped lips and tongue, but at least there’s no lipstick. Mickey fucking hates the feel of lipstick.

“See?” Jack says. “You can enjoy this.” He puts his hand on Mickey’s crotch and massages Mickey’s dick through his sweats. Mickey hesitantly rolls his hips upward. It feels good, but wrong too. 

It feels like he’s about to be sick.

“Yeah, you like that?” Mickey's not really sure. His cock's starting to fatten up, but there's still ice in his veins. His skin prickles at the wrongness of it all. Jack’s fingers cup his balls then move up to slide up and down the length of his shaft. Mickey licks his lips. That... That might feel kind of good. “You like that?” Mickey doesn't want to answer. He's not supposed to enjoy some old faggot touching his cock, but he thinks he might be. It's so fucking sick. "Hmm?" Jack grips Mickey's dick tightly and twists, damn near yanking it off. Any little pleasure that had been tingling through his nerves is seared away. 

"Ow, fuck!" Mickey grits his teeth against the pain and stares at Jack.

Jack curls his upper lip. “I said, do you like that?”

Mickey nods hurriedly and wraps his arms around Jack’s neck to pull him in for another kiss. If his mouth is occupied, maybe Jack won’t expect Mickey to talk and Mickey can just get the whole damn thing over with. He’d rather deal with the lizard than acknowledge that this is happening. Jack shoves his tongue into Mickey's mouth again as his hand soothes away the pain in Mickey's crotch. Mickey chokes as Jack slips into his sweats and palms his cock. It feels good—really fucking good—but at the same time it doesn't. Mickey doesn't know what to fucking think anymore. Jack strokes him until Mickey's hips roll upward, instinctively fucking Jack's hand.

“Fucking slut,” Jack says fondly and Mickey’s stomach rolls. Jack jerks Mickey a few more times, then pushes Mickey back against the couch to spread his legs and settle between them like he has a right to be there, his dick poking Mickey’s ass. Jack rocks his hips, dry humping Mickey like a dog. “Gonna feel so fucking good,” Jack mutters. He gets his fingers in Mickey’s hair and pulls as his mouth slobbers against Mickey’s neck again. “Yeah, you fucking want it. You fucking want it.” Mickey buries his face in the couch, breathing in the stench of old cigarettes and dust.

Jack shoves Mickey’s pants and underwear down, yanking them off one leg, then settles on his haunches, his fingers splayed on Mickey’s thighs. “Look at that cock.” His hand scrapes over Mickey’s dick, giving it a few rough tugs before he turns his attention lower. A wet pop echoes through the room and something slick presses against Mickey’s ass. 

Mickey nearly chokes on the dust of the couch as his breathing speeds up out of control. He turns his head and stares up at the ceiling as Jack pushes a finger inside of him. Jack starts whispering filth but Mickey tunes him out because he’s too busy figuring out how to process what’s happening with his ass. It’s…weird. Not quite painful, but not good either, and it just really feels like Mickey has to take a shit. Jack pushes another one in, pumping both of them in and out, and Mickey winces. Yeah, that’s… That’s…

Mickey throws an arm over his eyes. He would have been in sixth period by now. Gym. He could have fucking handled gym. It was Wednesday. They were probably playing Dodgeball or something. Instead he's here with Jack the Junkie, being fingered while listening to shit that Mickey doesn't want to hear.

The fingers leave his ass and Mickey tenses up. He knows what’s coming next. That’s how it’s done, right? Spit, fingers, then dick? He hasn’t even looked at Jack’s dick. What if it’s big? Is he going to bleed?

No. No, he can’t do this. He won’t. He’s not a fucking fag and he’s not taking it up the ass for nobody, especially from some old coked up tweaker. Mickey twists and kicks Jack off of him, then scrambles over the back of the couch. He lands on his knees but rolls with the momentum, sending him crashing into the carpet. He skitters over the floor, trying to get his feet under him, but just as he does, Jack’s right there. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Jack snarls. He punches Mickey in the jaw and pain radiates outward. Mickey stumbles and Jack followed it up with a jab to the other side, sending him into the couch. “I was trying to be fucking nice, bitch.” Jack shoves him back over the couch. Mickey tumbles onto the cushions and catches himself before he hits the floor. He sits up, going for the gun on the table, but Jack lands on top of him. 

Mickey fights back like he should have the moment that Jack had started all this shit, kicking and punching for all he’s worth. He’s good in a fight; he knows that. He can kick any kid’s ass at school and he doesn’t care how fucking big they are or how fucking mean. He’s Mickey fucking Milkovich and he doesn’t take shit from _nobody_. Jack better go find another goddamned loser to make his bitch because Mickey’s not fucking doing it. He’s not fucking doing it! He ain’t no goddamned bitch!

Jack pins him to the couch on his stomach, an arm twisted behind his back, and Mickey yells into the couch cushion as Jack forces his arm up and nearly snaps it. Tears spring to Mickey’s eyes. He can’t get away. He’s stuck, trapped by Jack’s skinny body, and Jack’s still hard dick is rubbing against his thigh. Jack forces Mickey’s arm up again, making him scream. “That fucking feel good? You like that? That better than letting me touch your dick, you little faggot?” The couch catches the broken noise that escapes from Mickey and after another painful twist, Mickey lets himself go limp. He collapses into the cushions and when his shoulders start to shake, he doesn’t try to stop them. 

“What are you fucking doing out there, Jack?” a voice calls through the walls.

“None of your goddamned business, Kyle!” Jack yells. “Or yours either, Cole. Find my goddamned money and shut the fuck up!”

“Christ. Don’t fucking kill the kid.”

“Should have just stayed put,” Jack growls at Mickey. “Fucking tease. Acting like you want it then trying to run away. What the fuck did that accomplish, huh?” Jack smacks Mickey’s side. “What the fuck did that accomplish?” He flips Mickey over and slams him back to the couch. “Answer me!” His hand cracks across Mickey’s face, sending Mickey’s face whipping to the left. Mickey blinks back tears. He’s not going to fucking cry for this jackass. He’s just not. In the corner of his eye, he can see Jack’s dick bobbing back and forth and he swallows down the fear and the hopelessness. He wants to feel nothing. 

“You like my dick?” Jack asks. “That dick’s going to be in you, you fucking faggot, and you’re going to fucking love it, do you hear me?” Jack grabs Mickey’s face, forcing Mickey to look at him. “Do you fucking hear me?”

Mickey nods. “Yes,” he whispers.

“Fucking good.” Jack grinds Mickey’s face against the couch.

“Are you fucking barebacking that kid?” Cole demands. He’s somewhere beyond Dad’s chair but Mickey doesn’t look. He doesn’t want to.

“Fuck off,” Jack snaps. “Fucking slut’s been begging for it since I got here.”

Cole huffs and something bounces off the table. “Found a few condoms and some lube. You think you could find the time to use ‘em? The kid don’t need to catch whatever you got.”

Mickey breaks into a smile through his tears because this is just too fucking much. Fuck all if the guy rapes a kid, right? Just as long as he wears a goddamned raincoat.

“Oh, you like that idea, huh?” Jack asks. His hand smacks against Mickey’s cheek but it’s gentler than before. Now that Mickey’s not moving, Jack’s not throwing punches. Mickey's smile drops away but he keeps his body dead still.

“Of course he fucking does. We’ve found about 5 grand in Terry’s room. Could get another few Gs from the coke in there, too.” 

“Get everything.” Jack keeps his eyes on Mickey. Mickey keeps his eyes on the far wall. “As for you…” Jack grips Mickey’s face again and turns it this way and that. “Look what you made me do. That’s going to be all bruised up now.” He picks up Mickey’s sweats and uses them to wipe at Mickey’s cheek. “You’re bleeding.” He sighs and tosses the sweats back onto the floor then grabs the bottle of lube. “You want me to use this?” he asks.

Mickey licks his lips wondering if this is a trick or not but finally he nods. Jack narrows his eyes and for a few moments, Mickey thinks that Jack’s about to tell him no. 

“Fine,” Jack says. “But you run again, and I promise you I won’t be so nice. Understand?” Mickey nods and Jack bends his legs up. “Hold these.” Mickey grabs a hold of his knees and holds himself open while Jack busies himself with Mickey’s ass. 

Jack smears a glob of lube on Mickey’s hole and smears it around. It’s cold and wet and Mickey doesn’t think that he likes it but he knows that it’s better than the alternative. Jack pushes a finger inside Mickey again, swirling it around. “This your lube?” Jack asks. “You do this to yourself?” He pauses, waiting for an answer. Mickey shakes his head. He doesn’t know whose it is. He wouldn’t have anything like it in his room because if he did, Dad might figure it out.

Not that Mickey is. Because he isn’t.

“Too bad,” Jack says. “Because you might have figured out how to do this.” He crooks his finger upward, rolling it against something in Mickey’s body that makes Mickey’s mouth drop open. Sparks fly up his spine and he arches his back and digs his fingers into the couch, feeling like he needs to hold on to something. Jack does it again and Mickey bites his lip to fight back a moan. “Oh, see, now that you like. Is it nice?” He rubs against the spot until Mickey’s gasping and twisting underneath him, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

“Now that’s being nice.” Jack’s voice has got a purr in it that makes something flip over inside Mickey. He squirms on Jack’s finger. “That’s being real nice.”

Jack tears open the condom and rolls it on. Maybe…maybe this won’t be so bad, Mickey thinks. There were gay guys doing it every night, right? Somewhere out in the world, there was some guy getting plowed in the ass and fucking loving it. Mickey would settle for just not crying.

When Jack pushes into him, though, Mickey chokes on the pain. Christ, why would anyone do this? Gays had to have holes the size of the goddamned equator because there was no fucking way that a dick was meant to go in there. Jack starts to fuck him and Mickey feels like his ass is trying to turn inside out. It hurts. Jesus Christ, it hurts. “Feel good?” Jack asks like a total fucking dipshit. How could this ever feel good?

Mickey puts his hands on Jack’s shoulders. “Stop. Christ, stop.” It’s one step above begging but Mickey doesn’t care. He just needs the burning in his ass to stop for a goddamned minute.

“What?” Jack asks. “You don’t like it?” His lips twist into a cruel smile and if Mickey could do anything but feel pain at the moment, he’d punch him.

“Jesus Christ, please stop.” And now he’s begging. “Please. Please stop.”

“See, this is a problem. An impasse. I’m not stopping, so you better just get used to it.” Mickey squeezed his eyes shut. It feels like he’s got a razor blade up his ass instead of a dick. “You’re a fucking little tease, sitting there giving all those looks, biting those lips of yours like you want a cock between them. Teases get fucked, whether they want it or not.” Mickey scrapes his fingernails against the couch.

“Please, oh fuck—”

“Hey, Jack.” Fucking Cole’s back. Maybe he found a stash of fucking diamonds or some such shit. Also, unicorns and the fucking Yellow Brick Road. “Think it’s the kid’s first time?”

Jack pauses and Mickey sucks in air after he remembers how to breathe again. Oh, thank fuck. Thank whatever. “He’s one of Terry’s kids, ain’t he? Probably been in and out of juvie for years. Been fucked plenty of times, haven’t you kid?” Mickey keeps focusing on breathing.

“Oh, fucking A, Jack, it’s his first time.” Cole sounds almost mad about that. That’s a real funny line to draw in the sand, Mickey thinks.

Jack grabs Mickey’s face and forces him to look at him. “Hey, this your first time? This your first time getting fucked?” When Mickey doesn’t answer, Jack shakes him and his voice turns into a hiss. Mickey’s pissing him off again. “I know you’re not choking on my cock because it’s in your ass, so you can talk just fucking fine.”

Mickey nods his head. “Yes,” he whispers.

“Well, fuck,” Jack says. Then he grins, quick and sudden like a drive-by. “I kind of like that. I’m your first. How about that? Hey, you ever been with a girl before? You ever fucked a pussy?”

Mickey doesn’t want to answer that. All the kids at school think that he has. They think that he did it with Kelsea Bingum back in middle school. What they don’t know because neither Mickey nor Kelsea told them is that Mickey hadn’t been able to get it up. He’d blamed it on the whiskey and had gotten her off with his tongue instead but she’d been so fucking drunk, she’d made up a grand story about how Mickey had fucked her for hours. Iggy thinks that Mickey did it with Maria Torez, too, but after Kelsea, Mickey hadn’t wanted to try again for awhile. What if he couldn’t get it up again? And what if this time, the girl was sober enough to remember? Maria had been too good for him, too. She’d deserved better. Mickey closes his eyes and shakes his head.

Jack laughs. “You’re a virgin! That’s so fucking sweet.” He sits up and holds Mickey’s knees wide. “First times are supposed to be special, aren’t they? Fireworks and roses. That’s what the movies say. You and me, though, we know that we’re not meant for the movies. This is as special as it gets for us—the chance to fuck on a dirty couch waiting for your sleazeball of a dad to come find us. That’s memorable, right?” He laughs again and rubs Mickey’s thigh. “There’s only good and not so good, kid. And you, you’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?” He starts thrusting again and Mickey nods. Surprisingly, it feels like his ass has gotten used to dick because it no longer feels like he’s being sliced up inside—maybe just jabbed with a blunt shiv.

“See? He agrees. So you can just fuck off with your _concerns_ , Cole. You find any more money?”

Cole sighs. “Think we cleaned the place out. About ten grand with the drugs.” Mickey winces as a particular deep thrust feels more like a stab.

“Then let me finish and we’ll go.” Jack speeds up, his thrusts starting to go harder and deeper. They hurt but Mickey grits his teeth and digs his fingers into the couch. A few more minutes, right? That was all he had to do, just a few more minutes.

He jumps when Jack touches his cock. “Your dick’s getting hard right now,” Jack says. “You must really like this, huh?” Mickey doesn’t answer but Jack continues on like he did. “Yeah, you fucking like it. Gonna get you off, how do you feel about that?” He jerks Mickey’s dick and Mickey grimaces. He doesn’t want to get off. He doesn’t want to do anything but make Jack go away. And if he gets off…

If he gets off while he’s being fucked by a guy, does that mean that he’s gay? But he’s not fucking gay. So there’s no way that he can get off while being fucked by a guy. That’s just fucking science, right?

Jack strokes him hard and fast and even though Mickey fights it, his dick isn’t listening to him anymore. It throbs in Jack’s hand, completely separated from Mickey and what Mickey wants it to do, like it has its own mind, its own desires. Like maybe Mickey’s not gay but his cock kind of is. It’s not fucking right. Your body’s not fucking supposed to betray you like this. Mickey bucks his hips, trying to find a semblance of control, but Jack mistakes it for something else. “Fucking like that, huh, slut? Knew you’d like being fucked.” Mickey wants to punch him, but he also feels like crying. He’s too scared to do either.

Mickey feels his orgasm building but is helpless against it. He twists and turns, trying to force it back but it happens anyway, pleasure exploding throughout his body as he jizzes on his chest and Jack laughs. Mickey pants and squeezes his eyes shut. He couldn’t fucking stop it. It just happened even though he hadn’t wanted it. The pleasure fades, echoing in his limbs, and all he finds underneath is guilt and the pain that is fast becoming familiar. Did this…? Was he…?

Mickey buries his face in the couch again as Jack keeps at it. Each thrust knocks him forward, only to be dragged back again by Jack’s grip on his thighs. Mickey starts to count, ticking away the seconds. _One. Two. Three…_

He gets to seventy-eight when Jack finally groans and spasms against him. Jack pushes in deep, his hand digging in to Mickey’s thighs. He jerks twice and collapses on top of Mickey like a landed whale, unexpectedly heavy. Mickey squirms to the side to be able to breathe again.

Jack pushes himself up and grins down at Mickey. Mickey keeps his eyes averted because if he looks at Jack right now, he might just puke. Jack presses a quick kiss to Mickey’s lips then pulls his dick out of Mickey and it’s like Mickey’s entire ass goes with him. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Jacks asks. Mickey doesn’t answer and Jack rubs Mickey’s head. “Maybe I’ll come back next week for my next installment, huh?” 

_Don’t react_ , Mickey thinks. _React and they’ll pound you into the concrete._ “Yeah, well.” Jack stands up and Mickey hears the sound of the condom being pulled off a second before it smacks onto his chest. “Souvenir,” Jack says. Mickey’s stomach rolls but he forces himself to stay still.

“You done?” Cole asks.

Jack zips up his pants. “You got my money?” Cole hands him a stack and Jack frowns at it. “This ain’t hardly enough.”

“It’s all we got.”

“Maybe we will be coming back, then,” Jack says. He looks down at where Mickey’s lying, still in the same position that Jack left him in. “Tell your Pops for me, will you?” Then he peels off two hundreds and lets them flutter to Mickey’s chest. “Good fuck, kid. For your virginity.” He finally leaves, the door slamming behind him.

Cole lays a hand on Mickey’s shoulder and Mickey flinches. _No…_ “Sorry, kid,” Cole says and then he’s gone, too, taking Kyle with him and Mickey’s back in the house alone. It’s almost like it never happened—except for the fact that everything’s changed.

Mickey finally lets himself cry. Mandy finds him later.


End file.
